


Drapeau Rouge

by fiendingforthesunshine



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Clint Barton-centric, Gen, Language Barrier, Origin Story, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Child Abuse, Past Torture, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Spies & Secret Agents, Teenage clint barton, anger management issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-02
Updated: 2017-11-15
Packaged: 2018-09-03 17:14:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8722015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiendingforthesunshine/pseuds/fiendingforthesunshine
Summary: Sure, Clint is a 17 year old European assassin with some breathtaking anger management issues but despite that he’s still a kid and for some reason Phil is the Responsible Adult™ in this situation.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! First of all. I don't /really/ know French. So if its bad, or wrong, leave a comment and let me know so I can fix it! Clint is 17 and Phil is rather young, 28 I've decided. When the rest of the Avengers come in I will likely play with their ages a bit as well, I'll tell you! Thanks for reading! Enjoy, leave kudos and comments if you want!

“ _Je suis bien, et vous?_ I am fine, and you?” The lesson program chirped through Phil’s headphones. Phil quietly copied the woman’s voice. 

Phil scuffed his heel back and forth over the ugly airport tile, waiting for the customs and immigration door to open. He was surrounded by families and significant others waiting for their loved ones to make it through all the hoops and paperwork required to get back into America after being abroad. There were two international flights that had just landed at JFK, one from Tokyo and one from Paris. 

Phil was waiting on the Paris flight and Phil didn’t doubt that it would take a while for the person he was waiting on to get through. 

“ _Où sont les toilettes?_ Where is the bathroom?” Phil repeated. 

Phil drew the short straw, literally. 

When Fury put up the profile everyone quickly denied wanting in on the assignment. 

Sitwell had too much paper work to finish from the mission last week that with FUBAR, Hill had yearly certifications and May had just applied to a go on long-term assignment in Latin America. 

Drawing lots was the only way to keep it fair but Phil is pretty sure he felt Fury switch the short straw to Phil’s hand just before he pulled out his fate. 

That meeting was this morning. Phil had about six hours to read the file and catch up on everything relevant before he had to be at the airport to get SHIELD’s newest ‘asset’. 

Clinton Francis Barton. 17 years old. Born in Saint-Amand-les-Eaux, about two hours north of Paris, near the boarder of Belgium. Recruited to a shady anti-government rebel group around the age of 10 along with his brother. Thought to be responsible for at least six high profile assassinations of diplomats and officials in France and two in Germany. Skilled in the use of most weapons but his specialty is a bow and arrow. 

There’s more to the file, of course, but those are the highlights.

“ _Avez-vous besoin d’aide?_ Do you need help?” Repeat, say again, click on the next lesson. 

Two weeks ago the kid was left behind in a firefight in Marseille, on the south coast of France, and picked up by the local police. Thankfully SHIELD had been watching and INTERPOL owed Fury a favor from a massive hostage negotiation that took place a few years ago so after a bit of inter-agency chest pounding SHIELD won. Clinton Francis Barton, child-assassin would be transported to America and into the hands of SHIELD. INTERPOL even agreed to transport the kid to New York, and because Phil drew the short straw he got to be the lucky new guardian. 

Excellent. 

The goal, Fury said, was to eventually fully recruit the kid to SHIELD and not lose any agents along the way. 

INTERPOL sent over the interrogation tapes, heavily edited to give SHIELD the least amount of information possible. Hell hath no fury like a governmental agency scorned. The ultimatum they gave Barton was clear enough despite the edits. 

If you stay here in France you’ll spend the rest of your life in solitary confinement. If you go to America you’ll work for the government the rest of your life but at least you’ll see the sun again. Prison-lite, Phil supposed would be the best term. 

They had constant surveillance of the past two weeks but SHIELD was only give two hours. If Phil hadn’t seen the records, and the footage from the firefight he would’ve thought they were torturing an innocent kid. Barton showed deference, answered everything politely and didn’t give much attitude even when it was clear that he thought the men interrogating him were in the wrong. The conversations oscillated between civil and downright frightening but Barton kept his cool. It was almost terrifying to see. Barton had complete control the entire time while the adults around him lost their shit. 

Clinton Francis Barton signed over his life to SHIELD and that was that.

Fury wouldn’t hear against it. They were getting the kid and Phil was officially in charge. 

“ _Où est l’arrêt de bus?_ Where is the bus station?” Phil stumbled on that one. Rewind. Repeat. 

If there is anything SHIELD knows it’s endless bureaucracy, and if they are the teacher of it, the American government is the master that taught them. Barton couldn’t just be delivered to America with no one the wiser. SHIELD had pushed through his immigration papers to get him an emergency protection visa. As far as either government was concerned, Barton was an orphan and Phil was his only living relative. There was no official file listing his arrest, he was purely at the police station as a formality when his parents died. 

For the sake of paperwork Barton was going to be a typical teenager, no one besides SHIELD and their good old buddies at INTERPOL would know about his past or his predetermined future. 

The people from the Paris flight were starting to trickle through the doors into the arrivals baggage claim, dragging their bags wearily behind themselves as they searched for their families. 

INTERPOL isn’t known in intelligence circles as being very discrete. Phil could spot them before they even walked through the door. Two tall and imposing men in all black, black leather shoes, black jeans, black sweaters and even black messenger bags. Between the two men was Barton. Average height, short dark-blond hair, non-descript sneakers, dark wash jeans and a black t-shirt, a jacket in his hands hiding what were likely handcuffs around his wrists.

Again, subtlety. 

Phil pulled his headphones out and angled his head to a quiet corner of the baggage claim; the trio followed Phil across the terminal. 

“You idiots didn’t keep him handcuffed for the entire flight from Paris to New York, did you?” Phil asked when the agents stopped in front of him.

One of the officers shrugged and Phil sighed, “What, he's going jump off the wing of the plane?” 

Phil reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the anklet monitor R&D has passed on to him before he left for the airport. Phil held it up so the agents and the teenager could see and gestured to the teenager’s hands.

“Uncuff him, either of you speak French?” The same agent from before nodded, “Tell him if he takes this anklet monitor off or he gets more than 250 feet away from me he'll be dead in under two minutes” Phil stepped down to take a knee, pushing up the kid’s pant leg to clip the monitor around his ankle. He didn’t catch any words while the agent was translating but he heard what must’ve been the teenager accepting the terms. 

When Phil stood up the other officer was uncuffing Barton’s wrists. His skin wasn’t totally rubbed raw but he’d been handcuffed throughout the video Phil saw and if they were willing to keep him handcuffed for an entire transatlantic flight he'd probably been handcuffed since the local police picked him up. 

Phil would have to set up an appointment with medical. 

Barton rolled his shoulders and wrists but didn't move from between the two men, still holding the jacket loosely in his hands and when Phil caught his eye he nodded, “Merci.”

Phil nodded back, “Uh… _Je m’appelle Phil?_ ” Phil tried. The French lessons on his phone hadn’t gotten very far. 

Barton didn’t smile but there was a glint to his eye that said he may have appreciated the effort, “ _Je m’appelle Clint._ ” 

“We have to go check in with our superior, here are his papers,” the officer handed Phil a black folder, “there’s a meeting with the immigration office tomorrow at 10am, they’ll want to do some interviews with him because of the emergency status of his visa, he's been properly briefed on what to tell them.” 

Properly briefed, well wasn't INTERPOL fancy? 

Phil nodded and tucked the folder between his arm and his side, “Of course, did he come with anything else?” 

The officer scoffed, “Nope, it’s just him and the clothes on his back, good luck.”

Once the men walked off Clint carefully pulled the jacket over his shoulders and rolled his wrists again, his eyes bouncing around the baggage claim area stopping just long enough to find each of the fourteen exists Phil had counted when he came in over forty-five minutes ago. 

There was no plan for tonight. Phil was to take him to his apartment, where at least eight SHIELD agents were going to be keeping watch between the ground floor and Phil’s hallway. Phil had even spotted two of them in the terminal, pulling off the ‘undercover’ job better than the agents Phil had just met. 

At least Clint seemed tired, he likely didn’t sleep on the flight and an interrogation room also has never been known to be conducive to proper rest. Hopefully, for Phil’s sake, he could feed the kid, give him a shower and then pass out until the meeting at the immigration office and then a long day hustling through SHIELD. 

Phil pulled out his keys and shook them to get Clint’s attention, “Let’s go. Um. _La voiture?_ ” That was car, wasn’t it? 

Clint blinked away from where he was staring at exit number seven and nodded, falling into step with Phil as they trudged out of the baggage claim and into the bit of New York City wind in the fall. 

\--

Clint fell asleep against the passenger side window almost immediately. 

Phil wanted to be shocked, he’s met assassins, he works with them, and they tend to be anxious and on alert every second and this kid shouldn’t be any different but there he was, completely out of it in Phil’s car in the middle of New York City Thanksgiving week traffic. 

Phil ideally wondered just how invasive INTERPOL was with their debrief, they had him for two weeks after all. 

Phil was mentally adding to his now ever-growing assassin related to-do list:

Find dinner. If the agents kept him handcuffed the entire flight they probably also didn’t give him food.  
Get the kid into the shower.  
Hope the kid knows what’s best for him and sleeps through the night; Phil is not in the mood for dealing with a runner on the first night.  
Feed the kid again.  
Survive the immigration office tomorrow morning.  
Survive the meeting with Fury.  
Take the kid to medical.  
Food again.  
Find psych and plant Clint in front of them for a few hours. 

Once Phil’s list was nearly complete he was still only halfway to his apartment. On a good day Manhattan is maybe 30 minutes away from the airport, during holiday season, however… well… Phil is lucky there aren’t any weapons in his car and Clint has been asleep for the majority of the now nearly an hour-long drive. 

\--

Phil put the car in park and pulled the key out of the ignition. The parking garage he uses is a good four blocks from his apartment but the rates are good and he doesn’t have to fight with old man on the second floor about the street parking every other day. Clint is still asleep, his face against the window. 

Phil rapped his knuckles on the center console to see if that would walk the kid up. 

Clint didn’t jump, but his eyes popped open and his left hand curled into a fist. Phil waited a few moments, letting the kid gain awareness of his surroundings. Once Clint let his hand relax Phil nodded, “Alright, out of the car.”

Clint didn’t move until Phil got out of his own seat, shut the door and came over to open Clint’s door. Clint slid out and walked next to Phil the entire way to the elevator, about a half a step behind. 

Once out on the street Phil looked around for a place to stop and get food, he never kept much in his apartment. 

Subway. Sandwiches were always good.

“Uh… um,” Phil stuttered, he’d heard the word for food, or maybe eat on his French lessons waiting at the airport, “Uh… mon-gey?” he tried. 

Clint looked up from the ground and up at the glowing light of the Subway and then looked back towards the parking garage with what Phil could only describe as longing. After a few moments Clint’s stomach growled loud enough that the entire street probably could’ve heard him. 

“ _Manger, oui?_ ” he pointed at the doors of the subway, “ _S'il vous plaît._ ”

Phil’s two hours of phone French lessons didn't cover the types of food that happen at subway and Phil is pretty certain Clint isn't hiding some sort of surprise knowledge of English. 

So. 

Phil ordered for both of them. A six-inch turkey sub with cheddar cheese, lettuce, yellow peppers and some ranch for Phil and a six-inch plain ham and cheese sub for Clint. 

Phil pretended to ignore the way the murderous criminal teenager next to him watched the employee making the sandwiches behind the counter. He didn't look like he was going to vault the glass and attack the guy he looked… intrigued. His eyes were still a little glossy from his nap in the car but his glance followed every move the employee made. 

Phil shuffled them down to the register down to wait, picking out two cookies and two bags of chips to set on the counter. 

Once Phil had paid for both their meals, he handed Clint’s his bag of food, his sandwich a bag of chips and a cookie inside and took his own, gesturing for them to leave. Clint followed him out, turning his head to look back at the restaurant a few times before the door finally shut behind them. 

Phil spotted three more of the SHIELD agents on the way to the apartment. Three blocks, the front door, and the main hall door, two sets of stairs and two sets of locks on Phil’s front door. Clint kept his eyes on Phil the entire time, memorizing the path and the order of all the steps taken to get inside. If Phil didn’t know any better, he would bet that Clint probably noticed the agents too. 

Phil kept his keys on him, instead of dropping them on the stand by the door, and led them through to the kitchen. Clint slid into the chair across from Phil and ate silently. Phil pulled out his phone and plugged it into the stereo he had sitting on the counter. Previous to his new French lessons Phil had been working his way through from the beginning of the This American Life podcast and it couldn’t hurt to expose the kid to some more English. 

Phil ate quickly; finishing the bag of chips half the sandwich and his cookie (deserts always come first) before Clint had even gotten through half of his own. He was clearly hungry and he didn’t look like he hated the food. He was likely just adjusting, Phil told himself, adjusting and definitely not planning to cause any trouble. Even Fury says Phil has an overactive imagination. 

When Phil finished he stood up, gestured that Clint should stay and finish his food, and threw away his trash. He let the podcast continue running and participated in his first trust fall with the kid. He left the room. 

He pulled out a towel and a washcloth from the hall closet and went into his room. The agents had dropped of a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt that looked to be the kid’s size. Phil collected it all in his hands and quickly went to the bathroom to make sure everything was in order. Phil removed the tweezers, the fingernail clippers and the toilet bowl plunger just for good measure and dumped them in his room, shutting the door and locking it before heading back to the living room. 

When Phil returned Clint was bent over the stereo, looking at Phil’s phone, his arms firmly clasped behind his back. Phil cleared his throat in the doorway and presented the clothing in his hands when Clint whipped around. 

“Come on, shower,” Phil held his hand up above his hand and let his hand open and close a few times, like the water was running. Clint looked back at the phone one more time; it was still on the play screen of the podcast, and walked over to Phil. 

Phil looked between Clint and the stereo and sighed, Fury had put Phil in way over his head with this one.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't entirely have an excuse for why its been an entire year since I've updated this story and I can't promise that the updates will be more frequent. Either way, enjoy!

Surprisingly Phil and Clint’s first night as roommates goes quite well. When Phil stepped out of his bedroom the house was still in order and Clint was asleep on the couch. A neatly folded pile of clothes in Clint’s size were on the ground just inside of the front door.

Phil doesn’t aim to wake the kid up so after he moves the clothes to the coffee table he continues on his path to the kitchen to start up some coffee.

While Phil is setting up his morning ritual he can hear Clint rustling around in the living room. Phil gives him the space, after all, if Clint tries to do anything Phil has the pager for his ankle monitor and eight SHIELD agents outside with orders to shoot on site. 

Turns out, instead of Clint being a runner, he’s a coffee fiend.

Phil discovers this when he is in the middle of groggily watching the coffee in his Keurig drip into his #1 Agent coffee mug, a rather useful white elephant gift from the SHIELD office Christmas party two years ago. One second Clint is shuffling into the kitchen tugging on the collar of the dress shirt from the clothes that had been dropped off and the next he’s practically on top of Phil.

Phil is hard to surprise but his current primitive and uncaffeinated brain tells Phil to reach out and twist Clint to the ground.

Phil’s advanced brain wiring kicks in just enough time to stop himself and take a deep breath and blow it out. While he’s waiting for his coffee to cool down Phil pulls another mug out of the cabinet and spins the K-cup rack he’s got on the counter.

“Which one? It’s not anywhere near as good at French coffee, obviously, but it’s all I have,” Phil offers while Clint examines the cups.

Clint picks a nondescript dark roast K-cup and watches Phil set up the Keurig with the same intensity he watched the exits in the airport and the employee at the Subway.

It’s just plain creepy.

Once his coffee is done he takes it back to the table and curls around the mug in his hand while Phil leans against the counter with his own mug.

They drink together in amicable silence until Phil’s phone beeps with a warning that they should get going to the immigration office. While Phil goes to find his keys, jacket and information for the meeting he watches Clint out of his periphery as the teenager follows each of the steps Phil took to make another cup of coffee. 

When Phil has everything he needs he takes his travel mug off the drying rack above the sink and mimes pouring into it. Clint nods and transfers the coffee. 

\--

Clint sells the ‘My parents are dead, please feel bad for me’ act Very Well. So well in fact, it requires capital letters in Phil’s head whenever he thinks about it. 

Part of the 2 hours of tape SHIELD received from INTERPOL included exactly what Cint was to say to keep anyone from the government from having any questions about why he was allowed into the country on such short notice. 

In Phil’s folder is backdated paperwork to prove the story. His parents were both born in America, but emigrated to France when they were young adults, Phil was his godfather. There are well doctored photos of Phil with two people who look vaguely like Clint (Phil isn’t sure if those are Clint’s real parents or stock photo that INTERPOL might just keep on hand for issues like this), and emails back and forth that show just how close Phil was to the family. 

Clint tells the interpreter that he had gotten home from school early, his parents were supposed to be home by dinner but they never came home. A neighbor, Madame Dubois, received a phone call from the hospital telling her they’d been in a car accident, and she drove Clint to the hospital. 

There was no family for Clint in France but he told the police he had a godfather in America. 

Clint looks appropriately sullen and forlorn about the “sudden” loss of his parents and by the end of the meeting Phil can tell the translator and the officer have bought the whole sad story. Hook, line, and sinker. 

Phil hands over the papers he received from the INTERPOL agents at the airport the previous night and smiles sadly like he just lost his best friends, which technically, he did. The officer reiterates all the rules to Phil, they can’t leave the country, there would be a surprise monthly visits from immigration, and Clint should travel with his papers on his person at all times. 

The officer gives Clint his business card and through the interpreter tells Clint that, “if you need anything you can call anytime” and Clint takes the card, hamming up his sad and pathetic face once again before turning around to walk out with Phil, his facade falling as soon as they’re out and he’s back into his half step shadowing of Phil.

SHIELD headquarters is fourteen blocks from the immigration office in a nondescript office building of which they operate in all twenty-three floor and seven floors below ground. The walk is uneventful and Phil spots four agents following them at various points of the walk. If Clint knows they’re being followed, he doesn’t seem bothered by it, during their entire 30-minute walk Clint seems more interested in looking around at all the sights and sounds of the city. 

“Anything like Paris?” Phil asks at one point, gesturing at the city around them, wondering if his meaning will get across. 

Clint’s eyes bounce around, observing the buildings and shrugs, “No. London.” 

Phil scoffs, “New York is better than London, and a hell of a lot better than Paris. If I can convince you of anything while you’re here it’ll be that.” 

\--

Clint Barton and Director Fury have a pretty good first meeting, all things considered.

The agents running front security nearly strip search Clint after he sets off the metal detector due to the butter knife (Phil is going to need to get locks for the cabinets) in his back pocket and after that they refuse to let Phil take Clint up to Fury’s office on his own.

When the agents surround him Clint doesn’t budge and Phil sees the same look on Clint’s face as he saw on the tapes sent from INTERPOL. A look that reads deference and proper behavior on the surface but now Phil can read into it further. Clint looks exhausted. 

Not typical jet-lag tired, but properly worn out. As if not only had he been kept up for the past two weeks after he was caught but that he probably hadn’t been sleeping well before then either. A constant exhaustion that Phil associates with some of the worst missions he ran when he was still out in the field. An exhaustion that almost hopes for a failed mission because then maybe he’d get some rest. 

Phil’s mind supplies a clip he’d seen near the end of the few hours of footage they had. Clint’s hands were cuffed, the chain tightly pulled to attach the metal to a hook on the table, his ankles were chained loosely to the chair that was bolted to the floor, keeping him from moving too far if he were to try and get up. 

Even through the pixelated feed Phil can see the gun holsters on the hips of all six of the officers in the room.

In the tape only one of the six men looked even relatively pleasant and Phil remembers thinking that because he had food in his hand, an offering to the teenager. They’re all speaking French but the situation is clear. 

Do what we say and you get the food. 

There’s a little back and forth, if Phil recalls correctly. Clint was part of an eight man group that night and he was the only one that got caught. Where are the others? Why did they leave you? Would they be looking for you?

The man sitting doesn’t speak but the two posted on either side of Clint speak almost constantly, there are two on opposite ends the table and two behind the man sitting. Phil now recognizes them as the men who flew in with Clint. 

Clint’s responses are almost too quiet to pick up on the recording but they all have _Monsieur_ or _Officier_ tacked onto the end. Despite his seemingly polite responses they clearly don’t appreciate the answers. 

At one point one kof the men behind Clint grabs him by the shoulder, pulling him up so roughly than when he drops Clint back in the chair the chains clang like an alarm and Phil can see the red marks the metal have left on Clint’s wrists. For a few minutes the men behind Clint are yelling and Phil finally pauses on the look he can see on Clint now, the exhaustion Phil knows all too well. 

Phil also knows all too well what’s about to happen to the security agents in front of him. He had nearly forgotten Clint’s exhaustion in the chaos of the next part of the tape. Just as the man who had been sitting with the food stood up, Clint lashed out with his foot, taking down the man who’d grabbed him minutes earlier and his head slammed backwards into the chin of the second man.

He would’ve made it farther if his hands weren’t cuffed to the table, but when one of the men managed to get Clint in a chokehold (and the other his gun aimed directly between Clint’s eyes) Clint froze.

Phil is definitely convinced he could make it farther this time though. 

Just as Phil is about to step in he hears footsteps behind him. 

“Back up. We’re not INTERPOL, and we’re not going to start acting like them now. Back up.”

It’s Director Fury and a dark haired man about half a foot shorter than him standing close. Phil recognizes him from the linguistics department. The security agents fall back, close enough still that they could take Clint down, but far enough away that Fury can stand face to face with their new asset. 

“I’m Director Fury of SHIELD, I’d prefer it if you didn’t kill anyone on your first day here.” 

The linguist translated Fury’s statement.

Clint mumbled something at the ground and the man flanking Director Fury huffed an incredulous laugh. 

“What did he say?” Fury asked. 

“He says he didn’t start it.” 

“I assume this is about the knife they confiscated?” 

A pause, for translation. Clint nodded. 

“Give him the knife back.”

“But, Director-”

“You heard me.” 

Phil can see the guard to the left of Clint glaring at Fury but he does what’s asked and hands knife back to Clint, who quickly slides it into his back pocket, “ _Merci, Officier._ ”

“You better thank the Director, kid. Not me.” 

There’s a beat of silence before Fury talks again, “Back to your posts. Coulson, We’re taking him to the range.” 

\--

Coulson, Clint, Fury and Nixon, the linguist, take the elevator down to the seventh basement floor. On the way down Fury makes his pitch.

“You're here mostly because INTEROL owes us a favor but also because we'd rather have someone with your skills on our side instead of with the Magnifique 9.”

Clint looks at Fury while Nixon translates, probably trying to figure out if Fury is any better than the goons he'd just been with. Phil fiddles with his phone, scrolling through emails with half an ear in the conversation.

“You want me to kill people too?” Nixon responds after Clint speaks.

The elevator dings and they all walk out down the maze of basement hallways, “Not yet, given that you walked in here with a butter knife today I'm not going to send you into the field anytime soon. However, your skill set is killing, that's what I got you for and that's what I want.” 

Phil wants to interject but Fury isn't lying, it's just rough. They took the kid because he's good at efficiently taking out targets, not out of the good will of SHIELD’s nonexistent heart. 

Clint just nods, seemingly unbothered. Either that or he's spotted their destination, the shooting range.

Phil walks ahead and opens the weapons cabinet, picking out a standard SHIELD issue pistol and pulling out four sets of headphones, this particular shooting range echoes like a bitch.

“We're still working on a bow that will fit your specs. You saw the security on the door, you can only come down here with Phil or myself,” Fury slides on the headphones that Phil gives him and looks down the range while Clint checks over the pistol, a slight look of disgust on his face.

“What?” Phil asks. Nixon doesn't need to translate that question.

Clint has the headphones slung around his neck and he could almost be any teenager in the street, if he wasn't holding the gun. 

“Nothing, what's the target?” 

“Start at 30 meters down range,” Fury presses the buttons to drop the paper target down in the right spot, “six shots, all in the center circle.” 

Clint shrugs, walks to the alley and sets the gun down to put the headphones over his ears. When he picks it up and lines up with the target the shots go off in quick succession. 

Fury doesn't need to bring the paper up to know that each shot was one right on top of the other, in the center of the red. 

Clint hands the gun off to Phil and leans against the wall.

\--

Clint tries another pistol, a Ruger, an AK47, 30 meters, 50 meters, 80 meters, moving targets and static ones. Clint barely breaks a sweat. It's unfair, frankly, that a kid Clint's age has better aim than people who've been training longer than he's been alive. 

Fury has his impressed face on, Phil can see it under his serious face. 

“How many kills do you have?” 

“15.”

Fury blinks, that’s seven more than the number they were given, Nixon elaborates once Clint responds, “The firefight in Marseille.” 

Fury nodded and looked down the range one more time, “We’ll bring you back to the range once we have a bow. You’ll continue to stay with Agent Coulson and if I see you without him my agents have orders to shoot on sight.” 

After Nixon translates Clint pulls on his pant leg to reveal the ankle monitor Phil put on at the airport and gives Fury a pointed look. 

“Stay with Agent Coulson,” Fury repeats, “Or I’ll shoot you myself.” 

Clint doesn’t argue this time.


End file.
